Sunday, January 28, 2018

Dealing With the Hand You Are Dealt



I think reflection is essential to prosperity.  Going through life trying to forget the past can be stressful.  Personally, I choose to embrace the past.  All memories – good and bad – play a part in preparing me today, for what I am to become in the future.  When I arrived on death row in July of 1997, the year 2018 was not a future I expected to see.

I have spent the last two decades battling my daily frustrations and conquering the occasional defeatist mentality that swirls around discouraged beings like a tornado raising the proverbial sands of disruption.  Within my first month of being the latest addition to North Carolina’s death row population, I learned that exercise could be a successful method of neutralizing the often-overwhelming gloom of condemnation.

Dee-Cee was an old-timer who recruited me as a workout partner when I was 29 years of age, and mad as hell about the outcome of my trial.  He would refer to me as ‘Young Philly’ at a time when the ongoing thoughts of my pending execution gave me every reason to lash out at anyone attempting to close the proximity between my existence and their own.

He often stressed the word, ‘Young’ when he addressed me.  At first I thought this was his way of ‘sonnin’ me.  You know, play me like a lower case version in the red jumpsuit hierarchy.  I most definitely wasn’t feeling that shit!  But, before any physical confrontation ensued, Dee-Cee revealed what he saw in me, while he shuffled a deck of cards at the dayroom table.

His acknowledgement of me being young was simply a reminder that I had a lot of living to do.  “You’ve got to be able to deal with the cards you have been dealt, before you can begin to change your circumstance.  This is death row, lil’ bruh.  So, you ain’t got a lot of time for nothing.  You either deal or die.” His sneer revealed a rotten tooth.

He flipped an ace, a queen, and back-to-back 5’s.  I was still processing the jewels he just dropped on me when he said, “That’s 35.  Let’s get it in.” He dropped to the floor and commenced to do push-ups.  Now, I took great pride in being an athlete, but I never had to do more than 25 push-ups in one stretch.  All the same, I wasn’t about to let this old-timer shine on me, either.

After a few sets, I was burning out and he was just getting started.  He just kept flipping these aces, kings, queens and jacks as if their denominations were a direct challenge of his will to live.  I just shook my head as I reluctantly assumed the push-up position.  “You gotta go with the cards, Young Philly.  Go with the cards.”  The rotten tooth appeared again.

As we went through the deck of cards, I learned that a North Carolina jury sentenced Dee-Cee to death when I was no more than a junior in high school.  Damn!  He was one of the first cats to break down the appeals process and the importance of having things filed on time.  This brand of guidance made me somewhat optimistic about my case, under appeal, because I knew I wasn’t guilty of the crime I was convicted of.  However, I was still a virgin to state sanctioned executions.

Dee-Cee wasn’t my best friend, but he was definitely someone I spoke with on a daily basis.  Law, sports, or women, the subject matter would vary.  I had grown accustomed to him being around.  Then, he was given an execution date in mid-December of 1997.  It was hard for me to talk to him about who would win the Super Bowl, knowing he wouldn’t get the chance to see it.

He kept telling me he wouldn’t be executed.  He said the state’s protocol was to give him a date, due to his attorney missing a filing deadline.  I heard him say this so many times I began to believe he was in deep denial about his fate.  I could feel the pressure, but Dee-Cee appeared to be cool as a fan.

The day before his scheduled execution, several officers came into D-block – escorted Dee-Cee to his cell.  They commenced to packing up his personal property, as I stood by my bunk feeling violated and helpless.  The officers were expressionless as they stowed his photo albums and transcripts.  I remember feeling like I needed to do something, but everyone followed Dee-Cee’s lead to remain at ease.

His vocal pitch was smooth as butter when he handed me an unopened deck of cards and an American Heritage dictionary.  “You can keep the cards, but I just need you to hold onto this dictionary til I get back.”

I was speechless.  I concluded that his will to live distorted his ability to assess what was actually taking place.  They’re taking you to the chamber Dee-Cee.  Ain’t no coming back!  I wondered if I would be as clueless when it was my time to ‘take the walk.’

Even though I really needed a dictionary, I was more than happy to give it back to Dee-Cee the following evening.  It turns out; the old-timer knew what he was talking about.  We had some laughs that would bring a smile to the face of an undertaker.  Our morbid humor was complemented by the sharing of some ‘slammin’ egg fired rice he brought back to D-block; his ‘last meal.’

Dee-Cee eventually got off of death row and is currently serving a life sentence.  As for me, I still have that deck of cards.  A symbol of what I’ve experienced and a reflection that makes me a much better Mann.  I haven’t stopped writing since December of 1997.  And, I can do at least 50 push-ups in one stretch.

Still Livin,’

MannofStat
Copyright © 2018 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Friday, January 19, 2018

Carrying My Side of the Plexiglas

Editor's Note: Happy New Folks.  Wishing you and your families a blessed and prosperous 2018. This will be a reset for Leroy.  Things will get back on track with weekly submissions. Pass the word along.

“Almighty Creator, although I am not worthy, grant me the peace of awakening within the warmth of all of your splendor.”

Hotep,

A condemned man’s prayer is sometimes a daily request for death…  So much more life to be lived, yet the confines in which I exist are not conducive to living a long and fruitful life.

I can find no solace in the sleepless nights with the hourly encounters of authoritative silhouettes patrolling this enclosure.  The rare chance for rest begins with a prayer.  Even still, every day the COUNT TIME command emerges from the unnerving reality of a walking death.

What is it about death that pushes an absent father to instruct his children and inspire future generations to appreciate life’s all …through the extent of a 15 minute phone call?

At the same time, the common threat of annihilation becomes an angst that somehow grants a pass to the individual who can think no further than himself.
Can’t change them…
Don’t understand them…
Damn sure wouldn’t want to be them.

But, I have to ask myself: ‘how much different from them am I?’ When every time I cry, I pray for this torture of social dysfunction to cease. It would seem, that staring into the dead eye of execution is a degree of pressure that has the potential to breed the best results from some of us.

Although sometimes, it isn’t enough to do my best.
So the stress
Tends to weigh me down to where my knees nearly parallel this rugged path I am destined to travel.  A death trip – so to speak – where emotional baggage is similar to carry-on luggage; close proximity.

One man’s final destination may be life in prison.  His change of scenery goes no further than a rec yard, chow hall, or conference room converted into a church house.

Another destination could be, FREEDOM.  A Mann’s yearning to walk out of the prison doors is not without the agonizing layover of meeting his grandchildren, for the first time, through a Plexiglas partition.  The inability to hold my little ones as they experience our inaugural physical encounter is a mountainous load to bear.

To the man whose final destinations is death…  Well, it is a long trip non-stop; the psychological turbulence is unending.  However, a layover filled with positive memories can make the journey a bearable one.

An athlete remembers his/her first catch, shot or goal.  A self-made millionaire remembers that first dollar made.  Memories seem to carry us through the most dire of circumstances.

I guess wearing the weight of the world on your shoulders is not a good look for anyone.  But this is a hard life that compels me to acknowledge: every waking breath could be my last, while in this particular state of consciousness.

It is heavy.
            Heavy…I say.

A term that is synonymous with my existence.  The daily routine of carrying food trays, medicine balls, or personal property is nothing compared to the emotional trauma of witnessing my loved ones carrying this burden right along with me.

100,

MannofStat
Copyright © 2018 by Leroy Elwood Mann